Garden Variety
by Rabid Angel
Summary: Kirk won't admit that his stomachache is blossoming into something much worse, but the crew isn't taking it nearly as seriously as he is. Just an excuse for some self-indulgent, gratuitous hurt/comfort with a bit of humor.
1. Chapter 1

**A/N: I've never seen the Star Trek television series, much less been interested in it, but the new film was greatly entertaining. I love some good hurt/comfort, and there were so many good opportunities for it in the film that I just couldn't resist dabbling. If any errors in Star Trek logic are committed in my writing, I would greatly appreciate being notified; I would like to be as accurate as possible. I hope you enjoy this story, and I would be delighted to know what you think.**

**Disclaimer: I sadly own nothing, but am working on owning Chris Pine. **

Garden Variety

He woke to a hot pain concentrated in his abdomen, located low beneath the waistline and burning a steady chasm of churning nausea within him. It pulsated vehemently, throbbing in an agonizing staccato rhythm that radiated a pervasively raw, smoldering ache throughout the expanse of his belly. The sensation was akin to what he estimated swallowing broken glass was like, sharp and molten as it infiltrated him like burning shrapnel and quickly brought him swimming to the surface from a miasma of dead, dreamless sleep.

Jim Kirk curled laboriously on his side with a hiss stifled into the flat pillow, manipulating his torpid limbs carefully so as not to further infuriate the malicious beast that lashed out within him. He emitted a self-satisfied sigh as he went limp once more, wholly and thoroughly exhausted by the minimal effort of shifting position. His legs curled instinctively upward to assuage the invasive, ever-present throbbing. The bedroom was as dark as the eternal night of the space vacuum, the _Enterprise_ humming pleasantly beneath him, sheets drenched in a sticky, cold sweat that caused him to shiver and further disturb the precarious balance in his abdomen. He blinked tiredly at the electric clock marked just past six A.M., surveying through large glass-paneled walls the eternal inky canvas of space dotted with distant stars that fondly twinkled backward.

He wanted nothing more than to wallow in self-pity for the entirety of the day, to sink back into the rumpled bedsheets and warmheartedly dream of how his mother cared for him when he was unwell as a child. His mind drifted to affectionate memories of eating strawberry sorbet in bed when his tonsils were taken out and of falling asleep to her lovely voice reciting Kipling fairy tales, but a nagging sense of duty and the equally nagging (if not more so) fire within him propelled him slowly upward.

The pain erupted tenfold when he sat up on the edge of the low bed, one hand fisting in the sheets and the other arm coming to wrap protectively around his burning abdomen. He bit his lip against an all-too feminine whimper as his fingers scrabbled fruitlessly against his side, looking to pull the flaming spike from his belly and be done with this nuisance. He looked longingly at the unkempt pillows, but he had an obligation to Starfleet, to the ship, and to the crew that did not allow for sick days.

He stumbled into the washroom, eyes watering at the shock of white light, and slowly, painfully divested himself of his shirt and boxers. The warm spray of the shower pod pummeled his shoulders and vertebrae soothingly, but he spent only a few minutes beneath the pressurized water before the pulsating agony in his abdomen drove him to gingerly seat himself on the small ridge of porcelain in the tiny pod. The heated spray coursed steadily down his back and relieved the tension that existed there, but he had no concentration for any soothing beyond the need for relief from the blossoming, ravenous monster within him.

It didn't take long to towel-dry himself, but he staggered back to a seated position on the bed to dress for the day. The process was agonizingly slow, often halted by his need to rest or pant through an unusually intense concentration of pain before continuing doggedly onward. Bending forward to pull on his boots produced the most horrific deluge of anguish he had experienced throughout the entire morning, but he somehow managed to soldier ahead. By the time he was dressed and mentally (if not physically) prepared to face the day, a sheen of sweat slicked his brow and he found himself so exhausted that he was more than ready to faceplant back into bed.

He left his quarters and walked at an unusually slow pace down the brightly lit corridor, fighting the urge to bend into a miserable ball on the tile or press a betraying hand to his blistering side. He followed the routine path to breakfast with a considerable slump in his normal swaggering posture, the desire to curl around his aching abdomen in whatever way possible becoming irresistible.

"Mornin', Cap'n," Scotty greeted with a wicked, rakish grin as he passed in the opposite direction.

Jim found himself so absorbed in his predicament that the greeting caught him by surprise. "Morning," he echoed hollowly as he continued on his way.

When he reached the dining hall, a barrage of food aromas that he would normally consider delectable assaulted his senses with unprecedented intensity. His stomach churned unpleasantly as he detected fluffy pancakes and eggs, sour acid sloshing in company with bitter bile when the earthy, pungent fragrance of bacon assailed him without warning. One hand pressed to his roiling, rebellious stomach and the other to his mouth as oblivious crew members filtered through the doors near his stagnant form, he bolted in the opposite direction to the nearest lavatory.

He fell to his knees before the mock porcelain toilet and emptied what little remained in his stomach beyond acrid bile and stale, acidic air, each heave creating a renewed, burning inferno within him and igniting the all-encompassing pain festering like an infected wound low within his stomach. The painful, jarring convulsions only served to increase the agony tenfold, a smoldering burn like molten lava surfacing within him to take precedence over the seemingly incomparable pain of earlier.

When the heaves ceased to wrack him, he scrabbled to his feet and gazed into the small looking glass above the sink. Despite being the youngest captain in Starfleet history, stress and what he wouldn't admit was illness had taken an immense toll upon his physical appearance. His skin was sallow and ashen in comparison to its typical shade of bronzed youth, and his lively blue eyes were instead feverishly glassy, red-rimmed and ringed by sickly circles of darker skin beneath them. He wiped the back of a trembling hand across his mouth and ran the other through his mussed hair, frowning critically at his appearance.

His knees were weak and his stomach continued to churn as he left the tiny room, but an emissary from the Andromeda galaxy was expected to come aboard and it was his duty to welcome the visitor. His feet steered him rotely along the well-worn path to the bridge, requiring no mental direction whatsoever, the way had been traveled so many times.

The crisp, bright atmosphere, white walls, and bustling activity of the bridge were downright nauseating. He somehow managed to gingerly lower himself into the cushioned captain's chair, sinking gratefully into the black leather with an exhalation of relief and curling a casual, protective arm around his pulsating abdomen. He hoped to whatever gods there were that what he had just expelled from his stomach was the basis of the problem and he would therefore soon be relieved of the relentless, knifing pain.

Lieutenant Uhura was hunched over her station, one ear covered by a hand to block the low chatter of the nearby navigators and the other bent close to the transmitter in order to better analyze an incoming communication. When a boorish and entirely unprofessional guffaw rose from someone that Jim was too exhausted to pinpoint, much less scold, she swiveled backward in frustration and resignation. Dark, exotic eyes lit upon him with a calculating expression that fostered an atypical feeling of self-consciousness, causing him to shift uncomfortably and desperately disguise the resulting wince.

"Rough night, Captain?" she asked drolly, a wry grin curving up luscious lips.

"I'm fine," he insisted dismissively, scrawling his spidery signature on some excessive paperwork tacitly offered to him by a silent assistant.

"You look like hell," she said observantly, surveying his drawn, ashy appearance and slumped posture.

"I didn't sleep well," he conceded in a bit harder tone than he intended. It wasn't _entirely_ a lie; after all, the discomfort had kept him tossing and turning between sweat-soaked, bedraggled sheets for much of the eternal outer-space night. It simply wasn't telling the complete and entire truth, but he had never been reputed as an honest man, in the first place.

"Whatever you say," she volleyed back teasingly, swiveling back to her work with a self-satisfied swagger. It astonished him that he had ever found this woman attractive- while she was certainly a physical specimen of the loveliest variety, her nagging curiosity and busybody tendencies certainly belied her exquisite appearance.

Huffing decisively, he slouched further into the chair. "How long until the Andromedan ambassador arrives, Sulu?"

"So long as we maintain warp speed eight, we should reach the Andromedan base in approximately two hours, Captain," Sulu answered dutifully from where he sat in the navigator's chair at the head of the bridge.

"Good," he affirmed. "What exactly are we meeting for, again?"

"The rendezvous is predominantly a diplomatic contact, Captain. We will meet to make his acquaintance and ascertain Andromedan exploration intentions in deep space."

The voice of his first officer came seemingly from nowhere, causing him to jump and pay dearly for his reflexive mistake. Spock was sharply clad in the standard blue Starfleet attire, seated in a rolling chair with impeccable posture and thoughtful, steepled fingers. His dark hair was combed methodically into the uniform Vulcan style, his features an impassive, pensive mask of utter serenity, barring his minimal surprise at the captain's forgetfulness.

Jim couldn't help but wonder how he could possibly have overlooked the presence of his first officer. Not only was it his absolute responsibility to be aware and well informed of his crew members' whereabouts, but he prided himself upon his observance and sharp eye for detail. Analyzing the ache in his abdomen once more, he mused that he must have been more out of touch than he previously led himself to believe.

"Good morning to you, too, Spock," he bantered glibly, slouching further into the chair. There was nothing to do but wait until the ambassador arrived, and he was more than glad to oblige to a period of idleness. Perhaps he could recollect his bearings during that time, and after a brief meeting with the ambassador, the lapse of his duty would allow him to collapse back into bed and put this hellish day to rest.

Snapping himself back to reality, he took notice of Spock's sudden interest in him. His humorless, abysmal dark eyes scrutinized the captain with analytical intensity, visually sizing him up with coherent, systematic concentration.

"Not you, too," he groaned wearily in warning.

"Perhaps if you are unwell-" Spock began coolly, his voice cloaked in the calm, honeyed logic that often served as Vulcan persuasion.

"I'm not unwell," Jim insisted adamantly.

Composed and blasé, Spock continued as though he had never been interrupted. "We should notify Dr. McCoy, seeing as he is your primary physician, and allow you to be diagnosed so that you are better equipped to supervise the far more numerous stressors of tomorrow."

"I don't need _diagnosed_," he maintained hotly. "I'm _fine_."

"You are perceptibly ill and unfit to perform your duties," Spock shot back firmly, leaning close to the intercom at his station and pressing the button. "Page Dr. McCoy to the bridge with a wheelchair."

"A wheelchair?!" he spat in indignation, hands gripping the armrests of the cushy chair as though he was preparing to lever himself to his feet and storm out. If only he felt well enough to provide the real dramatic oomph necessary to that situation…

"Judging by the fashion in which you hobbled in here and haven't been able to sit up straight from that time, I feel that a wheelchair is entirely necessary," Spock responded icily.

"I'm fine," he insisted once more, petulantly folding his arms across his chest and slumping further in the chair with a wince that Spock undoubtedly detected. Pale blue eyes scanning the scene that unfolded around their bitter stalemate, he became painfully aware of the surrounding crew's reaction. Numerous occupants of the bridge were wisely turned in the opposite direction of the impasse, internally battling to contain their laughter. Uhura covered her mouth to disguise a wry smile, and a snort from Sulu quickly morphed into a full-blown cough. He knew full well that he was a captain with an unusually pleasant sense of humor, but the tables suddenly turned when he tardily realized that they were laughing _at_ him.

"What are you looking at?" he asked crossly. "Back to work!"

The crew members scrambled in return to their respective occupations, exchanging knowing looks of contained humor. He locked gazes with Spock from across the bridge, challenging the Vulcan with cold, incensed eyes. Was that a gleam of amused victory he detected? He was publicly emasculated before his subordinates, and he didn't particularly enjoy the scheming brand of trickery that McCoy referred to as medicine. A part of him wished that the doctor would hurry the hell up and put him out of his misery, but despite his inherent hate of infirmity, he abhorred modern medicine. He would much rather retreat to solitude and wallow in gratuitous self-pity while licking his wounds than subject to the indignity of being pummeled with syringes.

Right on cue, the magnetic, glass-paneled doors slid open to allow McCoy entrance. He briefly scanned the room in search of whom to attend before his eyes lit upon Jim with a mixture of expectation and weariness.

"Why am I not surprised," he muttered resignedly, leaving the foreboding wheelchair at the door before approaching his friend and kneeling before him. "Dammit, Jim, what now?"

"I'm fine," he asserted hotly.

"Like a broken record," Uhura whispered with an entertained grin.

"What was that?" he snapped irritably across the room.

"Nothing," she conceded obediently, turning back to her work.

"That's what I thought," he said in self-satisfaction, frowning peevishly when McCoy pressed his shoulder back into the chair with unnecessary force to halt his uncomfortable fidgeting. The doctor removed the tiny, dreaded scanner from his first aid kit and brandished it before his face, watching the readout with creased brows and intense concentration.

"Spock here is overreacting," Jim insisted as he unhappily submitted to the examination, shifting uneasily from time to time, only to be forcefully pushed back into a stagnant posture. "I'm perfectly fine."

"That's why you have a fever," McCoy responded matter-of-factly.

"Why can't you ever come see me just to come see me?" Jim questioned lightly, a last-ditch attempt to divert the focus from his health. "Something always has to be wrong with me."

"Something always _is _wrong with you," McCoy volleyed back with a wry grin before resuming his inspection. "And if you wouldn't get hurt so often, maybe I would have time to see you for something other than patching you up."

"I'm not hurt," he insisted childishly as the scanner passed over his aching abdomen. He just wanted to get this over with so that he could perform his duties and sleep for a week.

"No, you're sick," McCoy amended, his furrowed brow relaxing immensely when he viewed the scanner. "Just garden-variety appendicitis."

"_Just_?!" he exclaimed in outrage as McCoy hauled him to his feet. He gasped and doubled at the waist, wrapping an arm tightly about his churning, pulsating stomach as the doctor gently urged him forward. He would not throw up on the bridge, he would _not_. "I could be dying!"

"How very curious. It was my conception that you were 'perfectly fine,'" Spock bantered breezily.

"Don't get cute with me," Jim snapped crossly as he was manhandled into the wheelchair, folding over his aching, abused stomach with a groan. He hadn't noticed a fever before, but now that McCoy mentioned it, he was certainly beginning to feel fevered. His vision clouded around the edges and he began to experience a sensation of being pummeled with breathlessness in hot, heavy waves.

"You'll be fine," McCoy interjected, placing a comforting hand upon his friend's broad shoulder. "It's a routine surgery and you'll be out for the whole thing."

"Please, no hypos," he whined childishly, rubbing at his neck as though a phantom pain from his numerous injections still existed. "You know I hate those."

"We'll talk about that later," McCoy promised, and if that wasn't a downright lie, then he wasn't James Tiberius Kirk. "Spock, you'll be in charge of meeting with the ambassador. I'll have him back to you in two or three days."

"Of course," Spock responded demurely. "I believe the phrase is 'get well soon,' Captain."

"This is all your fault," Jim insisted darkly as McCoy pushed the wheelchair out the door. His voice, strident and petulant, continued to echo down the brightly lit hallway long after the duo faded from vision.

As soon as the door slid closed with a soft hum of air, the remaining crew members dissolved into laughter.

**A/N: The surgery and recovery are to come; this is just getting started. I hope it's not too slap-sticky, but there was a considerable amount of slapstick in the movie and Kirk is certainly a character that doesn't shy away from humor. Hope you enjoyed it, and look out for the next update!**


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N: Wow, I was astonished by the immense response to the first chapter! I'm sincerely elated that you've all enjoyed it so much, and you have no idea how much I appreciate your reviews. I'm sorry to say that this chapter is far shorter than the pilot, but this week and the next are shaping up to be immensely busy for me, and although I didn't have time to write much more than this offering, I figured that something was better than nothing. I hope you enjoy it, and I'd be delighted to hear any opinions. Thanks for reading!**

**Disclaimer: Still own nothing. Still pining after owning Chris Pine.**

Garden Variety: Chapter Two

"Maybe it'll clear up on its own," Jim offered optimistically as the wheelchair passed through the automated, glass-paneled doors of Sickbay. He had spent the entirety of the short expedition vilifying what he believed were the manipulative tendencies within Spock that had originated in the exposure of his deception, all the while hunched protectively over his core. The exact moment in the space-time continuum that he entered Sickbay, he launched headfirst into the expected (and wisely prepared for) subterfuge of old: whining, undermining McCoy's authority, and doing everything and more within his power to extricate himself from the abominable clutches of modern medicine.

"I highly doubt it," McCoy responded with a saturated tone of displeasure and irritation. He had been privy to this evasive song and dance numerous times throughout his Starfleet career, and he never failed to be victorious so long as he entertained Jim's foolishness long enough to tire him out.

"Really, if we just leave it alone and don't do anything radical, it'll pass," Jim insisted, cautiously swiveling in the wheelchair only far enough to connect his intense stare with McCoy's. His passionate blue eyes were innocent and youthful in comparison to their normal allocation of wickedness, but at the same time, they conveyed a beseeching and desperate expression of puppy-dog neediness. He couldn't help but pity the farm boy's poor mother and curiously wonder how she could ever have denied him anything.

"And what medical school did you go to, again?" he questioned, quietly instructing the nearest nurse to scrub in for the surgery. He briefly left Jim to his own devices to gather a select few hyposprays, but he maintained a watchful eye trained upon his friend as he sorted through the seemingly infinite stock of medication. It wouldn't be the first time that, even bleeding and broken, the captain attempted to bolt.

"Haven't you heard? I'm an expert at everything," Jim retorted absentmindedly, observantly scanning the expansive infirmary with a vigilant eye to pinpoint the nearest route of escape.

"Of course," McCoy conceded, pocketing the pharmaceuticals and steering the captain into the OR. It was a considerably small room composed of minimalist, brushed steel and harsh overhead lights lowered to a tolerably dimmed level, but despite its barrenly humble outward appearance, it was well equipped to patch up the members of the ship. As cleared the door, Jim visibly tensed, shoulders locking into a drawn posture of rigidity.

"For the last time, it's a simple surgery," he soothed in a comforting tone of undeniable logic, gripping his friend beneath the arms and encouraging him to use his own shoulders for support in order to rise. He could see the intensifying panic materializing within Jim's wild eyes, and no matter how incessantly his exasperation seemed to cloud the fact, he knew full well that his friend's distaste for medicine went far beyond a ridiculous level of stubbornness to veer into the territory of unwarranted phobia. "People undergo this procedure every day and complications are extremely rare. It only takes two hours, and you should be back to bossing everyone around in three days or so."

Jim pulled in a sharp, jarring intake of breath when he rose, one hand clutching McCoy's shoulder in a clasp fierce enough to bruise and the other coming reflexively to lay on his abdomen with great pressure. As he was helped to delicately lift himself onto the edge of the metal table in the center of the dimly lit room, a characteristically languid, lascivious smile unfolded across his face. "Talk dirty to me like that again, Bones," he gasped, voice hoarse and roughened as sandpaper grating across uneven wood. "I like it."

"In your dreams," McCoy lobbed back, gently tugging at the soft fabric at the hem of his friend's shirt. He carefully lifted and paced himself at a slow crawl to accommodate the rampant, ratcheting pain that caused Jim to bite his lip near bloody, cautiously removing the supple material while allocating extra consideration to avoid twisting his friend too suddenly. That done, he tossed the discarded shirt in a nearby clothing bin and knelt to remove the captain's boots.

"Stop," suddenly came the timid, trembling command.

His hands stilled and he looked sharply upward to find Jim even more ashen than before, tinged with an unpleasant shade of faint mint green, eyes dully feverish and apologetically frightened.

"Aw, hell," he muttered, propelling himself out of the crossfire just soon enough to avoid the ejection of thin, pungent vomit that splattered unpleasantly upon the sterile tile floor. He instantaneously transformed into the epitome of the concerned doctor, all previous whimsical banter stymied in favor of soothingly cupping the back of the captain's neck with his broad palm and whispering nonsensical reassurances. When Jim finished, he looked even worse than he had earlier, drenched in a thin patina of cold sweat as he shivered convulsively and blinked dull, guilty cerulean eyes. His brow was knotted in pain, his expression the utter personification of abject misery.

"Don't worry about it," McCoy assured him supportively while beckoning through the open door to the nurse from earlier to clean up the mess, sidestepping the vomit and continuing the strip the unexpectedly limp, wilted captain to his boxers. "It's a common symptom of appendicitis. If you would have let me sedate you from the start, we could have avoided this." His heart truly ached for his ailing friend, but he couldn't wholly banish the reproach from his tone.

"And miss all the fun? Never," Jim drawled tiredly, submitting to being lowered to a supine position and allowing his eyes to fall shut.

As McCoy crossed the room to wash his hands and the nurse took his place to mop the floor, he couldn't help but be astonished by the unprecedented transformation in the captain's demeanor. He did a double take back to the ailing man wilted upon the metal table and almost couldn't believe his eyes. Could he finally have won without the necessity of a fight of epic proportions? It made brilliantly logical medical sense to assume that illness had at long last exhausted Jim, but it was unlike him to be so submissive after such a brief argument. He had expected exceptionally grand escape maneuvers and had prepared accordingly, but with a swelling sensation of pride, he couldn't help from congratulating himself for ultimately taming the beast.

Turning back to the lanky body stretched prone upon the table and depositing his hypos on the adjacent tray as the soft hum of air announced the nurse's departure, he was startled to hear the rough voice rise once more.

"What the hell?" came the quiet, indignant introductory query from the captain. His face remained a stagnant mask of fever flush and serenity, save the knotted forehead so furrowed that his brows almost touched.

Just when he thought he'd won. How many ledges would he have to slam into on his way down this cliff?

"What now?" he huffed irritably.

"You cock-blocking son of a bitch," he charged indolently, eyes snapping open to reveal vivid, accusatory blue. "I've been trying to get with that nurse since the last time you imprisoned me here, and making her clean up my vomit doesn't exactly help my chances."

"If only I'd known," he drawled sardonically in response, combining the contents of three hypos to curtail the agonizingly prolonged process of subverting and often manipulating the captain into a medicated sleep. "After all, I exist solely to cater to your romantic whims."

"Damn straight," Jim responded confidently, eyes roving nervously over the various surgical instruments positioned on a tray near his forearm. His voice was soft and hoarse, but still very much electrified by its characteristically dramatic intonation.

"If she's been resistant to the patented James T. Kirk charms for this long, I don't think that she's ever going to get with you," he advised wryly, stirring a small brush in a metal basin of thick, viscous amber liquid.

"Never say never," he intoned sagely with a wicked grin.

McCoy gave a long-suffering sign in response, earning a glare that would send lesser men scurrying in the opposite direction when he folded down the waistband of the captain's boxers to paint a smooth stroke of the coagulated, gelatinous liquid on youthful golden skin. He skillfully evaded the groping hand that attempted to stymie his efforts and continued to liberally saturate the lower right quadrant of the patient's abdomen in thick fluid.

"What the hell is that?" Jim gasped in shock and frustration, stiff and shivering beneath the cold liquid and chilly, sterile air.

"Relax, it's just Betadine. It's a disinfectant," McCoy assured, replacing the brush in the basin after a final ochre stroke and abandoning it upon the tray.

"It smells," he complained petulantly, childishly wrinkling his nose. His sporadic, nervous blinks began to grow more numerous and increase in their duration as the conversation progressed.

"Why the hell won't you just pass out already?" McCoy exclaimed, twirling the scalpel between skilled fingers and itching to get started. "You're obviously tired, and most people would have fainted from the pain, by now."

His suggestion seemed to have had the opposite effect; Jim was lively and reanimated due to his unwise insistence to scratch the eternal itch of his excessive pride. "First of all, I'm not most people," he asserted confidently. "And second, I'd hate for you to get lonely."

"I rather enjoy my time away from you, believe it or not," McCoy stated before quietly commanding the computer to raise the lights.

Jim squinted irritably in response. "All work and no play makes Bones a dull boy," he recited. "Will this thing scar?"

"Most likely, yes. But it shouldn't be too noticeable," McCoy counseled, counting the seconds until Jim's legendary endurance finally ran dry or he slit his throat with the scalpel; whichever opportunity presented itself first.

"Aw, hell," the captain whined childishly. "Women hate that stuff. Now I'll never have sex again!"

Exasperated, McCoy ignored the comment and beckoned the nurse forward. "Nurse Chapel, would you assist?"

Jim rolled his head to the left on the thin pillow, shivering sporadically and watching with a lustful gleam as the petite, lusciously shaped blonde nurse hesitantly sauntered in their direction, visually stripping the woman naked with his penetrating, licentious gaze of approval. With the right side of his patient's neck exposed, McCoy seized the golden opportunity and jabbed the hypo into the captain's prone jugular, depressing the plunger and allowing the transparent contents of the syringe to drain.

The captain turned his head and eyed McCoy with a hurt that may or may not have been dramatized. "That was low," he whispered, blinking torpidly as the light dimmed from his expressive eyes.

"You've always been a fool for a beautiful woman," he quipped, breathing a long-withheld sign of relaxation when Jim's eyes at last fell closed and his breath evened into a soft, peaceful rhythm.

"I thought he would never fall asleep," McCoy joked to the bewildered nurse, carefully analyzing the captain's tawny, presently amber skin before sliding the scalpel through skin and muscle like a knife through room temperature butter. Viscid scarlet blood welled in the incision, vivid and brilliantly colored beneath the harsh, sterile light.

"Let's get started."

**A/N: More to come in the next few days- you'll see the aftermath of the surgery, the recovery, and yes, for those of you who were asking, certainly a dose of Spock/Kirk friendship. I've got one or two more chapters in mind- I have yet to determine that, and I may or may not invoke a bit more of Christine Chapel. I hope that you've enjoyed this much so far, and I'd love to hear what you think. Thanks for reading!**


	3. Chapter 3

**A/N:** **Again, I cannot satisfactorily express my gratitude to all of the readers, be they reviewers or not. Your encouragement is so very gratifying, and I hope that this chapter is good enough repayment. It's a bit shorter than I intended, but the end of May is an incredibly busy time for me and I again figured that a little taste was better than nothing. I do have a few things to address before I launch into this, though. **

**About medical accuracy: I never claimed that this story would be medically accurate, and I do not hold a medical degree. My knowledge of medicine is limited to basic first aid and treating concussions. If I've committed any grave errors in my portrayal of this situation, please tell me, but as this is not a hospital drama, I don't think that minor slip-ups and omissions that most readers won't notice are anything to worry about. **

**About description: I strongly believe that description can never be too excessive; it is imposible to paint too vivid of a picture. I thrive on both writing and reading long expositions of imagery, be it sensual or emotional. I've aways had a very expansive vocabulary and I love to put it to good use. I feel that it doesn't tell the reader how to interpret the story, but instead better elucidates the experience. Long, intricate description is very much my style, and this story is something of a step down from the level found in my comfort zone. I appeciate the constructive criticism, but the amount of description is one thing I will not budge on; it's what makes me the writer I am. Now, without further ado...**

Garden Variety: Chapter Three

James T. Kirk never did anything halfway, conscious or unconscious. McCoy recalled from previous injuries that he had always been what medical personnel sardonically referred to as a bleeder, but he certainly didn't expect his patient to nearly bleed out on the table. Much to his surprise, after paring through thin layers of muscle and tissue, he found that the infected organ was far nearer to rupturing than he had previously estimated. He thanked his lucky stars that they were fortunate enough to have performed the surgery just in time, but he couldn't help but be astonished at the captain's remarkable ability to maintain a relatively impressive level of composure throughout the ordeal, considering the unbearable pain he must have experienced. He knew full well that Jim was the excessively proud owner of great stamina, but lesser injuries had brought strong men to him howling. However, the aforementioned luck spiraled rapidly out of sight when he permitted the assisting nurse to close up and she nicked an artery in the process.

"Shit!" he growled, ignoring her profuse apologies to focus his energies on sewing miniscule, finite stitches into the spurting tissue. When he finished his painstaking work and began to stitch up the reddened incision, Nurse Chapel fairly trembled in anticipation of the reparations of her cataclysmic slip. While the majority of modern surgeons preferred staples and superglue to conventional stitches, his humble country credentials caused him to favor the former, and he had no desire to repeat the catastrophic events of a post-bar-fight patch up in which Jim went into anaphylactic shock due to his previously dormant allergy to surgical glue.

Pulling back, he surveyed his handiwork, frowning in dissatisfaction at the neat row of black stitches. His sutures were as always methodical and precise, but they certainly could have been better, had his gloved hands not been so liberally saturated in thick, slippery blood. The healing pad with which he wrapped the wound was already dotted with fresh scarlet from his fingertips. A cursory survey of his patient's gray, inert face found him astonished that the subject was indeed the Jim he knew and occasionally hated; he often became so engrossed in surgeries that he was likely to overlook that he was in fact cutting into a comrade.

"Put him in post-op and start a full transfusion," he directed Nurse Chapel, who nodded and quickly went about transporting the unusually lifeless captain. He couldn't help but partake in a soft, private chuckle at the delicate female hands placed upon his friend's chest and hips in the process of maneuvering him onto a bio-bed, choking back a boisterous guffaw when she leaned over him and her ample chest contacted unintentionally with his sleeping face. Oh, if only Jim were awake to enjoy it.

He divested himself of his bloody surgical gown before retreating to his tiny office, cramped with mounting, disorganized stacks of Federation medical paperwork and playing host to numerous cleverly hidden bottles of vintage alcohol. He collapsed gratefully into the cushioned swivel chair and propped his booted feet on the cluttered desk, scrubbing a hand across his exhausted face. Surgery was a cumbersome, tiring activity, but even more so when performed on a close friend and colleague.

"Computer, prepare to enter the following in the medical record of James Kirk," he addressed the empty room.

"Affirmative, doctor," the coolly feminine, automated voice of the ship's computer answered in a monosybillic tone that resonated from the barren walls of the cramped chamber. "Beginning recording."

"July 21st, 1420 hours. Patient was admitted to sickbay exhibiting symptoms of severe abdominal pain, moderate fever, nausea, and vomiting. Diagnosis was affirmed as appendicitis and an appendectomy was performed. Complications included an accidental nicked artery and excessive blood loss, which was later replenished by transfusion. Patient suffers from a moderate post-op fever and is being treated with broad-spectrum antibiotics and a mild sedative. Conclude entry."

"Entry concluded, doctor," the placid, serene voice responded.

He reached in the direction of the touch-screen panel above his desk and keyed in a confidential code, scanning the methodical array of vital signs labeled by each individual patient that bled onto the screen. His analysis of the captain's information proved that he remained blissfully asleep, but as grateful as McCoy was for the temporarily reprieving calm of sickbay (he wasn't sure he could handle a whiny Jim Kirk at the moment), he frowned and physically navigated deeper into the computer system for a more in-depth examination of Jim's vitals.

The captain's heart rate was low due to his state of sedated slumber, but much to McCoy's displeasure, his pulse raced at a rate fifteen beats well above what was considered the acceptable standard for such circumstances. Propping his chin upon the heel of his hand in distress, he closed his eyes with a long-suffering sigh and considered the infinite medical maladies that could contribute to an unhealthily elevated heart rate: high blood pressure, preexisting infection, difficulty breathing, allergic reaction (considering the source, it wasn't too far-fetched), stress…

Guilt nestled uncomfortably within him like a parasite when the answer illuminated itself- even unconscious and drugged to the gills, Jim never did anything the easy way, and therefore it made utterly plausible sense to assume that his subconscious was pressured by stress to the precipice of underlying panic. He had fallen asleep (or rather careened headlong into oblivion) tricked and goaded into what he perceived as a life-or-death procedure in perhaps the place he abhorred the most, accompanied only by his academy roommate and a pretty girl. Jim was so frequently characterized by stubborn, larger-than-life bravado that McCoy found it troublesomely easy to overlook the passionate, turbulent emotions and formidable convictions that truly composed his character. The glimpses of the thoughtful, good-humored man beneath the bold, shamelessly wicked exterior were so privileged in their dispensation that he often underestimated his friend's few crippling fears.

Curiosity struck him, and he felt compelled to sift through what would certainly be Jim's dissertation-length medical history in search of why he suffered from such a deep, dark doubt of modern medicinal abilities, but before he could pull up the file, a strong, solid knock resonated upon the closed door.

Locking the computer back down, he rose and opened the door.

He was greeted by the placid, emotionless face of the starship's first officer, his features impassive and calm as though they were etched into cold marble. "Doctor McCoy," Spock said softly to accommodate the few sleeping patients across the expansive chamber, his voice smooth and dark, concentrated eyes frighteningly level with the doctor's own.

"Commander," he answered in return, itching to avert his eyes. He had badgered Jim innumerable times as to his decision to offer Spock the ranking of first officer, and each query was met with the typical affirmation of the captain's complete trust in the almost chillingly calm, rational Vulcan. He had no doubt whatsoever in the extra-terrestrial's ability to successfully govern the ship in Jim's absence, but the pointy-eared hobgoblin's excessively peaceful demeanor and undeniable, detached logic unsettled him.

"How did the meeting with the ambassador go?" he questioned politely, not so much for his own knowledge as it was something to mentally squirrel away and later notify (and by notify he meant perhaps even use to pacify) Jim.

"The diplomatic summit went as pleasantly as possible and the ambassador has returned to his planet. I will neglect to bore you with the political details," Spock responded coolly, eyes trained faithfully and undeniably eerily upon McCoy's. "How is the captain?"

"Stable," McCoy supplied, leading Spock across the medical bay in the direction of Jim's bed. "He bled too much during the surgery and his fever and heart rate are higher than ideal, but he should be fine, barring complications."

Spock's eyebrows creased into a dramatic, mildly humorous "V" as McCoy pulled back the heavy privacy curtain surrounding Jim's bed. Jim would be outraged should lesser-ranking members of the crew glimpse him incapacitated, and thankfully Nurse Chapel had the blessed foresight to eliminate such a potentially embarrassing outcome. He made a mental note to commend her for her considerate discretion.

He hadn't made his rounds since the surgery, and he was secretly thankful that Spock had interrupted him from his reverie, for he had a dangerous tendency to become excessively engrossed in work. The Jim Kirk lying limply beneath the papery sheets seemed utterly smaller than his vigorous, robust counterpart, skin ashy from blood loss and eyes rimmed by dark, unhealthy circles. His pronounced brow was pulled into a slight frown despite the calming influence of the sedatives, and the hand encumbered by an intravenous port was unconsciously fisted within the military-issue sheets.

"I must admit that my knowledge of medicine is unfortunately limited to Vulcan anatomy, but may I ask why his heart rate is so elevated?" Spock questioned, frowning at the captain analytically.

"I think he's subconsciously stressed," McCoy said, observing his patient with equal diligence. Oh, how Jim would hate this uncomfortable scrutiny, were he awake. "He fell asleep unhappy and in pain, and he's probably still in pain despite the drugs. He doesn't like being anywhere near Sickbay, either."

"Perhaps there is something either of us can do to ease his conscience?" Spock suggested.

"I'm not sure how awake he is- probably laying there playing possum," McCoy began in jest, quickly sobering at the humorless, quizzical look upon his companion's impassive face. "Anyway, I don't have time to do it myself right now, but it's entirely possible that, if you just sit here with him, he'll recognize you and his pulse could come down."

Spock appeared skeptical, but he moved to drag a hard-backed chair from the corner of the small cubicle and proceeded to lower himself into it. "I shall never understand the expanses of human mysticism," he mused aloud. "It is preposterous to believe that one could be sentient of another's presence while sedated and unconscious."

"I've seen stranger things," McCoy affirmed, keying a code into the small panel mounted into the foot of the bed and typing dosages into the digital record. "You might try touching him to let him know you're here, as pissed as he'll be when he wakes up."

Spock gazed tentatively upon the inert captain before hesitantly laying long fingers well suited for piano-playing upon the lax arm limp atop the bedsheets. "Is this suitable?" he questioned, applying a gentle, comforting pressure to Jim's arm.

"Sure," McCoy responded without looking up. He wasn't concerned as to any potential harm befalling Jim because of a bruising grip from Spock, and even if the situation were so, the captain was so antagonistic that he could most likely pick a fight (and win, at that) in his sleep. "I have some charting to do, but keep an eye on him for me. He should wake up in an hour or two."

"I will be vigilant," Spock promised soberly as McCoy sauntered across the room in search of another patient.

And so, there was nothing to do but wait.

PAGEBREAK

When he woke, it was less an awakening than it was laboriously clawing himself from the shadowy, abysmal depths of oblivion. He was surfacing through a thick atmosphere of fog, consciousness riddled with a murky miasma of cobwebs as he struggled to knife through treacle-thick confusion. He wanted nothing more than to sink back into the untroubled lapse of conscious thought, but a wheedling, distant part of him slowly chipped at his dormant rationalism, which was so often disregarded, to rouse him from the chasm-esque void.

His mental footing precariously established, he seized the moment to take inventory and assess the surrounding environment as any self-respecting captain would in an unfamiliar situation. He lay supine on an uncomfortable bed with a pillow too firm for his taste, the chilly air processed and scented faintly of antiseptic and disinfectant. A soft hand was wrapped firmly around his forearm, and he relaxed marginally when it became clear that the hand was intended to provide reassuring pressure rather than to restrain. He felt hot and sick, smoldering heat rolling across him in nauseating waves that served only to draw attention to the throbbing ache in his belly.

"Jim, I know you're in there. Rise and shine, sleeping beauty."

He didn't believe that he could contend with McCoy at the moment. It took considerable mental dexterity to keep up with the doctor's biting wit, and he wanted nothing more than to melt back into the welcoming embrace of oblivion if only to escape the nagging. His head swam with hazy confusion and a muddled recollection of events blurred around the edges, a dull ache beginning to throb behind his eyes.

His eyes were suddenly forced open and met with a blinding lit of painful intensity, causing him to turn his head away with a hoarse growl of displeasure as his eyes watered and stung. In any other circumstance, he would have sworn colorfully and come up swinging, but his tongue was torpid and his limbs sluggishly lax.

"That did it," McCoy beamed with an excessive amount of pride, twirling a thin penlight between his fingers where he perched on the side of the bed.

He closed his eyes briefly, willing his head to stop spinning. Whatever drugs McCoy had coursing through his bloodstream were downright psychedelic, but he remembered what had happened with surprisingly vivid clarity. "Did you get it?" he questioned roughly, sinking bonelessly into the tough pillow.

"Sure did," McCoy affirmed far too cheerfully, raising his thin sleep shirt to peel away the healing pad and examine his incision. The touch of the doctor's cool, calloused fingers was unwelcome and greeted by a hiss, but he sighed in relief when the cooling salve that saturated the fibers of the gauze was replaced upon the tender skin. "It was an ugly bastard, too. You are now the proud owner of an appendix in a jar. Want to see it?"

"No thanks," he said, becoming suddenly aware of the long-forgotten hand upon his arm when its owner shifted position. He rolled his head on the pillow and was astonished to find Spock at his side, impeccably groomed as per usual and meeting his curious, stoned gaze eerily level dark eyes. The Vulcan's hand remained immobile upon his arm, blessedly cool and comforting upon fevered skin. He decided that he felt poorly enough to suffer the minimal indignity… for now.

"How are you feeling?" McCoy questioned, tapping the bedside monitor and analyzing the readout as the vivid screen flared to life. He captured the captain's wrist and focused on his antique watch, counting the beats methodically. Jim couldn't help but chuckle at the display; his friend was so damnably old-fashioned.

"Like hell," he rasped petulantly, tearing his arm away and casually laying it across his abdomen in a show of pitiable melodrama. He consciously forced his eyes to keep from drooping; he was _so _tired. "Are you sure you didn't mess anything up in there?"

"Well, _I_ didn't," McCoy insisted, toying with the dosages specified upon the monitor.

His heart skipped a beat. "So you just let someone root around in my insides and they messed something up? Oh, god, I'll probably never have sex again because you let them take out-"

"Don't get your panties in a twist," McCoy insisted crossly. "Nothing major happened, you just lost a little more blood than I'd like. You'll be fine if you quit worrying."

"Yes, mom," he responded peevishly, eyes fluttering closed against his will. The rolling, consistent heat of his fever and the enticing undertow of the drugs conspired to pull him under.

"I know you're getting better if you're back to griping as usual," McCoy said wryly. "Spock here is lucky that he only had to baby-sit you until you woke up, because you're a whiny bitch when you're sick."

A drowsy smile curved up his lips. "And you're always such a ray of sunshine."

"Get some sleep. I want you to eat something when you wake up," McCoy insisted.

He didn't think his stomach could handle food at the moment, let alone when he next graced the medical staff with his charming presence, but he didn't need to be told twice. He quickly dropped into the pleasant, heavy oblivion that had been tugging at him since he awoke, lulled to sleep by Spock's even, inquisitive voice directed at the doctor and the consistent pulse of the heart monitor.

**A/N: So, how was it? I have one more chapter in mind until this is over: it involves a healthy dose of Kirk/Chapel, but I think Spock's contribution to this story is over. I have another Star Trek fic planned after this that is highly similar to my Supernatural fic, Darkly Dreaming Bedlam, in its heavy themes of intense description. The summary is this: Jim Kirk has always been utterly, wholly, absolutely terrified of dying. I need to finish this first, and I hope to have the final chapter up by the week's end (perhaps sooner), but you're not getting rid of me that soon ;). I'd love to hear what you think of this chapter- thanks for reading! **


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